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CHAPTER ONE
"It's a simple combination of leverage, speed and being able to use the attacker's weight for momentum. Now let's try it again, okay? Who's ready? Professor Stone. How 'bout it? Want to give it a try?"
Professor Kimberly Stone looked at the instructor when she heard her name, but she had no idea what he was talking about. Her mind and attention had left the building and it was all Joan Walsh's fault. Ever since her best friend had told her that today was going to be the day her boyfriend would propose, Kimberly had felt a growing pang of impending abandonment. Maybe she was over reacting. Their friendship would withstand the strain of marital commitments. Or would it?
"Professor?"
Kimberly could feel eight pairs of eyes staring at her as she remembered where she was. The weekly self-defense class had been Joan's idea, but had Joan made even one class? No. And was she here today? No. What was her excuse this time? She had to finish correcting term papers before her special lunch with Bill. But here you are, a 37-year-old criminology professor, about to get your ass kicked by a macho Chuck Norris wannabe who thinks he's God's gift to martial arts.
"You're gonna have to do this sooner or later Dr. Stone," said Richie Tucker, a third-degree black belt in karate and a first-degree black belt in bullshit. Richie held out his hand, but Kimberly pushed up from the mat, unassisted.
"That's the spirit," he said, grinning.
While the other women remained sitting in a semi-circle around the outside of the two-inch thick blue mat, Kimberly walked to the center. So far, every other woman in the class had humiliated herself at the hands of this bully who obviously enjoyed flipping helpless females over his back and pinning them into submission under the guise of teaching them how to avoid such situations.
"The Professor here has been working out," Richie addressed the sitting women. "I've seen her pumping those Nautilus machines, toning up those triceps and biceps. She sure looks good don't she?"
Kimberly felt the blush in her cheeks. Step a little closer Richie. Let me see how far I can bench-press your testicles.
Richie tightened the cinch on the black web belt that held his white karate robe together and walked behind Kimberly, who, like the rest of the students, was wearing black leotards and spandex.
"Let's see if Professor Stone has been paying attention. Remember what I said. Leverage, speed and momentum. Ready Professor?"
I supp ... "
But before Kimberly could finish, Richie grabbed her from behind with a chokehold, his forearm cutting off her windpipe.
Kimberly dropped to her knees and tried to flip Richie over her shoulder but he wouldn't budge. Instead, he grabbed the back of her head and slammed her back into the mat, then straddled her chest with his fist pointing down at her neck in striking position.
"You need more practice, Professor. Next."
Inside her Greenwich Village apartment, Joan Walsh stepped out of the shower and began to dry off. She looked at the clock. Nine-thirty. That gave her two and a half hours to grade forty Introduction to Criminology term papers before catching a cab to midtown and lunch at Lutece with Bill Gardner. It was the choice of restaurants that gave him away. It was the first restaurant he'd taken her to, and she remembered telling him what a special place it was. He'd responded by saying he only went there on special occasions. They'd been dating for three months now. If he didn't ask her to marry him at lunch, she was ready to propose to him.
Joan continued drying as she walked to the kitchen for a cup of expresso. Looking out the open window over the sink, she could see that it was going to one of those beautiful spring mornings. The trees that lined Sullivan Street had started to blossom and turn green. The air smelled crisp and clean. And here she was, trapped inside. It wasn't fair. Unfortunately, this was the only time left to read the midterms. The grades had to be turned in tomorrow.
Wrapping the towel around her, she started to carry the cup into the living room when she heard the door buzzer. She wasn't expecting anyone. It was probably Mr. Fontes, the building's superintendent, who just happened to stop by whenever he heard her shower running, hoping to catch a glimpse of her semi-naked, towel-clad body. Not this time old man.
Joan removed the towel and slipped on her bathrobe. Pulling the robe tight and cinching the belt, she walked toward the front door, resentment building with every step. She didn't have time for unneccessary intrusions and was ready to tell him so when she looked through the peephole.
"Well, this is a surprise," she said, smiling when she recognized her visitor. Joan quickly unlocked the three deadbolts and doorclub she had installed to keep out the army of weirdness and insanity that patrolled the Village at night. Pulling open the heavy door, she thought of polite ways to keep the visit short but sweet.
"Is this a bad time?" asked the visitor, noticing Joan's frizzy red hair was still damp from a recent shower and that she smelled of scented soap.
"Actually, it is," said Joan. "I have to correct some papers. And the place is a mess. But you're here. So come in. You can't stay very long though."
"I understand. I thought I might have left something behind the last time I was here. Mind if I look around?"
"Go ahead. Want some coffee?"
"No thanks, Maybe some water?"
"I'll just be a second."
The visitor watched as Joan walked into her small kitchen, barely the size of a narrow hallway. She turned on the water faucet and reached into a cupboard for a glass. She seemed different this morning. Had something changed? No makeup. That must be it. But even without her normal beige foundation and eye shadow, Joan Walsh had a natural attractiveness, with her red hair pulled up into a pony tail and her cheeks colored by blotches of freckles. And although Joan had recently turned 35, this morning she looked ten years younger, with an innocence that nearly broke her visitor's heart.
Joan returned to the living room with a glass of water and an awkward smile.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Not yet," said the visitor taking the glass and then taking a drink.
"Why don't you keep looking while I get dressed?"
It was then that Joan realized her visitor was staring at a small-framed photograph, one of many pictures lining the dark mahogany mantel over the fireplace. The visitor then reached over and picked up a picture of Joan with a man in a ski suit. They were standing in front of a ski lodge.
"Who's this?"
"Just a friend." But as soon as she said the words, Joan sensed a subtle shift in the air that sent a shiver of fear down the back of her neck.
"A friend," said the visitor. "I thought I was your fiend.
"You are," said Joan. "Come on. Don't get like that. Especially about Roy. He's just an old friend I ran into last year at my fifteen-year high school reunion." Joan took the picture from her visitor and set it back down on the mantel.
"You don't have a picture of me."
"Why would I need a picture when I have the real thing?"
The temperature in the apartment suddenly seemed colder. The air thickened with static electricity. When Joan reached out and touched her visitor's arm a tiny spark shocked her finger.
"Look, I don't have to start grading papers right away."
"We have to talk about it," said the visitor.
"There's nothing more to say," smiled Joan. "Besides, I had a more nonverbal type of communication in mind."
The visitor stepped back. "What can I do to change your mind?"
"Nothing. Now stop bringing it up, okay."
She started to let her bathrobe fall open.
"Why don't we just ......
The blow came fast and furious, a full fist in the face. It crushed her nose and knocked her back. Feeling as if she was about to fall, Joan reached out to grab something, but two powerful arms spun her around and held her from behind. Her eyes widened as she tried to comprehend what was happening. It was then that she felt the belt of her bathrobe being torn from its loops. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand muffled the sound while the other hand bound her wrists with the terry cloth belt. She opened her mouth wider until she could feel the fingers and knuckles beneath her teeth. She bit down as hard as she could.
"Aggghhh!" the attacker screamed, pulling the hand from her mouth. Joan tasted bile in her throat and felt a trickle of blood running from her nose into her mouth. A feeling of rage soared through her body as anger replaced the fear that had filled her moments before. She started to scream again but this time the sound was muffled by a piece of terry cloth torn from the pocket of her bathrobe. She thought she would gag as the attacker pushed the wad of fabric to the back of her throat.
The attacker blew on the bitten fingers and then backhanded Joan across her face. A blinding pain from her already broken nose caused her eyes to fill with involuntary tears. The room became blurry and for a moment she felt as if she would pass out from the pain. But then she felt the attacker pull the cloth belt tighter, burning the skin around her wrists and the anger returned briefly. She kicked out but all she hit was air.
She tried again to scream but what came out was a gurgling sound and even that seemed to fade into the wet cloth that filled her mouth. She tried again to kick, but the attacker grabbed her leg, spun her around and punched her in the lower back, knocking her to the floor. The assailant then held her down by putting a foot in the center of her chest.
